I found Saelith. She stood at the heart of the clearing past trees that had become contorted by the dark. Saelith was barefoot upon...

There is still no sign of Saelith. Not the sound of her footsteps, nor the warmth of her voice. I followed her prints until they staggered, one step sinking deep into the black soil as if she lost her stride, but then a few paces further the shapes become... Wrong.

Feathers lie scattered, frozen within the skies forever locked in a motionless descent. Then, deeper still, I found a kilmei...

Saelith has gone. Not a foot print, nor signs of struggle within our homestead. There was only a thin trail of frost leading toward...

For several nights now, she has risen from our bed and wandered beyond the edges and outskirts of Ragne. She does not wake when I call her name. Her feet carry her as if sleepwalking, but always to the north, toward the quiet edge of the woods where the frost covers the trees. I followed once, but the cold grew thick in my lungs choking the air from my chest, and the dark pressed too close, obscuring my vision until I lost sight of her. When I returned, she was already back a

To anyone who finds this, If I don’t write these things down, I fear they’ll freeze inside my chest before I ever manage to tell her. Her name is Saelith. She laughs like warm swirling rivers and braids tiny bird bones into her hair for luck. She smells of cedar, smoke, and crushed spearmint, and every time she looks at me, I forget the shape of my own two hands. I had planned to give her a charm this turning of the seasons. Nothing supremely grand, just a piece of silver in

She no longer hums while she weaves. Her yellow eyes are fixed on her work with an unmoving stillness.

A fragment of parchment was recovered from the Ancestor's Altar. The paper is brittle, handwriting careful to be clear, but obviously strained by time. "The Ancestors no longer answers prayer. The bells frost over before they can ring. When struck or shaken they sway, but not a sound follows no matter how vigorous. Somehow, the chime lingers somewhere else beyond our senses. We held vigil through the night, thinking the quiet was perhaps a test sent upon us. But the frost gat

A letter was left behind on the table of a tavern called the Wayfayer's Rest, or just 'The Rest' to locals. Each letter was made with ink, which bristles with shards of frost that blur some of the writing of the unsigned paper. "I’ve locked the inn. I can still manage to light the hearth, but it does little good. It offers no warmth to these tired fingers. The guests sat closer and closer together as the frost crept in, speaking less with every hour. Laughter fell short and h

A piece of parchment was found nailed to the mill door in Ragne. The paper has erratic handwriting throughout, and is signed with three paw prints at the bottom of the page. "To anyone looking for us, The mill is closed until further notice. The wheel still turns when the river swells, but it turns without sound now. It began the other day, we awoke to an errie silence in place of the sound of waters we had become used to as the backdrop of our day. We tried to work through t

This letter was found in a cottage in a state of disarray on the edge of Ragne. The writer was vacant from the property when searched. "Mother, You told me the old stories were meant to keep little children from wandering too far into Blackwood Grove in winter. I believed you back then. But I saw it last night, by the graves beyond the silver birches. The frost had already taken the stones, turning the names dull and unreadable. I tried to brush it away, but my fingers burned

I wasn’t going to say anything, because I don’t want people thinking I’m drunk or grieving or soft in the head. But the ice is wrong. It crept up the alley behind the tannery last night. It did not happen overnight, as I watched it do it. It slid along the stones like creeping breath across a mirror. No sound. No wind. Just there, and then stretching further yet, as if reaching to snuff out the warmth from the fire. I thought I saw someone standing at the end of the lane. Tal

To whoever tends this shrine next, I leave this as record, do not put your faith in the old prayers. For three mornings now the grey frost has returned to the low fields before dawn. It does not sparkle. It lies flat, like ash pressed into the grass. Where it settles, the soil hardens and cracks as if drained of warmth entirely, though no true cold follows. The kilmei refused to cross it. Even when driven, they balked and cried until pulled away. One knelt frozen to place, st

A journal page was found caught by the wind, it had clearly been torn cleanly down the spine. Elegant, but shaky handwriting denotes the following message. "I thought the stories were just nerves about the season turning, or perhaps fear of famine that often returns this time of year. Then last night, when the mists rolled in just off the ridge, the frost on my window moved. It had not melted. Not fading. No. Moved. Patterns shifting like breath on glass, forming a shape I al

A note was found frozen to a gatepost, written in a hurried, cramped hand that had clearly been trembling. "The frost came early this year. Not the clean white kind, but the dark grey kind. The kind that clings in oppressive sheets instead of flakes. I thought it was just the cold settling in wrong, but then I saw it. Shapes. Not footprints. Not animal tracks. Just indentations. Like something leaned its full weight into the frozen earth and slid itself forward wthout lifting

We were fortunate to find a few chatty Ceth amongst the bunch, but as Human writers venturing the Ceth territories, we certainly felt an air of unease.

It is deep in these catacombs that our second story is told by a Potoo Sirin by the name of Jebediah.

The edges of the parchment is weathered, and the handwriting of the page is tidy but rushed. Found in Ragne. "Late Autumn, just before the First Frost I camped near the edge of Blackwood Grove tonight, foolish as that may sound now. The leaves here cling to their branches longer than they should. Vibrantly green one day, then suddenly glassy and brittle the next. A frost had begun to form. The locals warned me of the "Crooked Branch,” but spoke in circles as if they fear nam

It would be recorded that during these clashes between tribes, warriors were free to “Unleash the Beast,” leading to quick and often blood..

Lycanthropes, or werewolves as they are often referred to, are horrendous creatures with the power to fool you! They could be your friend, your neighbor, or even little Timmy down the road!